Finally, he put the tablet down, turned to face her. “You do know he has spina bifida occulta?”

His question/declaration felt like a direct blow to her heart. She’d known, but had still been hoping against hope.…

Tears surged again as she nodded. “As a researcher of drugs targeting the nervous system, I knew the basics of the condition.” Incomplete closure of vertebrae around the spinal cord, which instead of hanging loose in the spinal canal was tethered to the bone, potentially causing varying degrees of nerve damage and disability. “I studied it extensively because I suspected Ryan of having it. But every pediatrician and neurologist told me not to worry, that ten percent of people have it and are asymptomatic, something they discover as adults during X-rays for unrelated complaints. I persisted, and a couple conceded that he has minor neurological deficits, which might or might not mean future disability but that there was no treatment anyway. But I couldn’t just wait until Ryan grew up and couldn’t walk or never developed bowel or urinary continence. I had to know for sure that there was nothing to be done, and only you…only your opinion will do…”

The sobs that had been banked broke loose.

He was down on his haunches in front of her in a blink, his hands squeezing her shoulders. “It was amazing that you noticed the mild weakness in his legs and clawing in his toes. He’s sitting and crawling, and with him far away from being toilet-trained and without previous experience with children, I’m beyond impressed that you discerned his condition even after the repeated dismissal of your worries. But I can excuse the doctors who examined him. It would take someone as extensively versed in the rare as I am to form an opinion on so irregular a condition.”

Her sobs had been subsiding gradually, at his soothing and under the urge to swamp him with questions.

The paramount one burst from her. “And you’ve formed one?”

He nodded. “You were absolutely right. Without surgery, he may develop increasing disability in lower limb motor function and bowel and urinary control.”

She sank her fingers into his sinew and muscle. “So there is a surgery? To prevent further damage? What about any that already exists? Is there damage? What about bowel and urinary problems? My sources say even when surgery successfully closes the defect and releases the cord, those usually never go away.…” She faltered on the last question, what she of all people knew was a long shot. “And if there’s a residual handicap, would my drug help?”

He rose, came down beside her. This time, she sank into his solicitude gratefully, only the last vestiges of her willpower stopping her from physically seeking it.

“Most, if not all, surgeons wouldn’t touch a case like Ryan’s. They’d say their findings are too ephemeral to warrant a surgery that wouldn’t offer much, if any, improvement. But I say different.”

Hope surged so hard inside her that she choked with its agonizing expansion. “You—you mean you’re not telling me to give up?”

He shook his head. “Of course, any surgery comes with risks.” The world darkened again. He caught her hand, squeezed it. “I have to mention risks because it’s unethical to promise you a risk-free procedure, not because I expect problems. But I can and do promise you and Ryan the best result possible.”

Her tears faltered. “Y-you mean you want to operate on him?”

He nodded. “He’ll be safe with me, Gwen.”

She stifled another heart-wrenching sob. Fareed’s arm slid around her. “And yes, your drug will regenerate the nerve damage. I know it’s not approved for use on children, but because I believed the delay in approval was built on bureaucracy and not medical facts, I have obtained permission from the region’s drug administration under my personal responsibility and have used it on even younger patients than Ryan with adjusted doses and certain precautions to astonishing results. Together, we’ll cure Ryan, Gwen.”

And she had to ask the rest, everything, now, before this turned out to be a deranged dream, before she fainted again. “How long will it take? The surgery? The recuperation? How soon can he have it? How much will it all cost?”

“The surgery itself is from four to six hours, and the recuperation is from four to six weeks. He can have it as soon as I prepare everything. And it won’t cost a thing.”

That stopped the churning world. Her tears. Her heart.

“You must have misunderstood,” she finally whispered. “I’m not here seeking charity. I didn’t even think of asking you to perform the surgery, only hoped you’d write me a report stating that it’s a surgical case, so no surgeon could tell me it isn’t.”

He pursed his lips. “First, there’s no charity involved—”

She struggled to detach herself from the circle of his support. “Of course there is. You’re here performing pro bono surgeries. But I can pay. Just tell me how much, and I will.”

“You will pay? Not that it’s an issue here, but why wouldn’t your insurance cover your child’s medical expenses?”

She should be more careful what she said. He noticed everything. Now she had to satisfy him with an explanation or he’d corner her with demands for more information she couldn’t give. “I insisted on costly investigations the doctors said weren’t needed, moving me to an unfavorable insurance category, so the coverage would be only partial now. But that doesn’t matter. I’m very well paid and I have a lot of money.”

He leveled patient eyes on her. “Of course you are and you do. And there is still no cost involved.”

She shook her head. “I can’t accept a waiver of your fee. And then there are many other expenses besides that.”

His lips quirked, teasing, indulgent. “First, I’m a big boy, if you haven’t noticed, and I can waive my fee if I want to, which I mostly do. My ‘reputation’ isn’t totally hype, you know. Second, there won’t be any other expenses back home.”

She gaped at him. For a full minute.

She finally heard a strangled echo. “Back home?”

He rose to his feet with a smile. “Yes. You, Ryan and Rose are coming with me to Jizaan.”

Five

Gwen stared at the overwhelming force that was Fareed Aal Zaafer, and was certain of one of two things.

Either she’d finally lost her mind, or he was out of his.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would stop the disintegration of this situation, set it back in the land of the acceptable. She opened her eyes again hoping she’d see on his face what should have been there from the start, polite forbearance with a patient’s hysterical mother.

But he was looking at her with that indulgent intensity that singed her. Worse, a new excitement was entering his gaze, as if he was realizing more benefits to his decision by the second.

“As soon as Rose and Emad return, we’ll go to your hotel and collect your luggage on our way to the airport. We’ll be in Jizaan in under twenty-four hours.”

He’d said it again. This Jizaan thing. She hadn’t imagined it the first time. This was real. He meant it.

But he couldn’t mean it. He had to be joking. He did have a wicked sense of humor.…

No. His humor, while unpredictable and lightning-fast, was not in any way mean, at least, not in any of the lectures and interviews she’d seen. It would be beyond cruel to joke now and he was the very opposite of that: magnanimous, compassionate, protective.

But he was also single-minded and autocratic and she had to stop him before this crazy idea became a solid intention.

He detailed said intention. “We’ll go to dinner first, or we can have it on board the jet.” He got out his cell phone, cocked his head at her. “What would you like to have? Real food this time, I promise. I can either reserve seats in a restaurant, or have your choice ready on the jet.”